It is with a fearful undertow pulling me backwards that I get out of Dwight Creen’s Ford Fiesta as the sun lights up the parking lot that surrounds Hot Foxies, glinting in wing mirrors and on chrome. The rear of the club is still in shadow, the traffic on the freeway whines, and the whole scene feels familiar and alien all at once – the situation I find myself in separating me from all that is normal and every day, even as it is right here before me.
My feet are bare and the minute stones on the tarmac spear my blisters. Dwight opens the trunk and lifts out the bucket of Frank’s limbs. I watch, dumbstruck, as he hands the bucket of bloodied flesh to me.
Obediently, I take it from him and I stare down at the protruding feet and hands, the bloodstained rings on poor Frank’s fingers.
Blood
